The Next Mrs Russo - Jana Aston Page 0,9

was always cute but then one day he shows up on a Netflix series with a beard and you nearly fall off your couch?

Like that.

Anyway. GILF. Look, I didn’t make that up, someone else did. But now I’m thinking about it and I’m blushing and I cannot look directly at him. It’s like looking at the sun. Stupid, stupid crush.

“Why ever not?” Mrs Bianchi is the first to object to my objection, her eyes narrowed like a woman used to getting what she wants.

“He only likes blondes,” I blurt out. Oh, God. God damn my internet searches.

“But you are blonde,” Mrs Bianchi interjects with a puzzled frown.

“Oh, this is super fake.” I wave a hand around my head. “Dyed.” That’s another lie. I actually am a real blonde. Someone make me stop.

“That’s not a requirement, actually.” This from Warren, the flicker of an amused smile crossing his face. It’s brief, gone as quick as it arrived, but it’s a sucker punch nonetheless because one hit of that smirk and I’m jonesing for another.

“Has anyone vetted this girl, Marcia?” Artie waves the file folder he’s holding around in dismay while starting to pace the room. “You can’t just drag some woman off the street and set them up.”

Well. Technically she dragged me in from a shop across the street, but semantics.

Also, Artie’s not wrong.

“She could be a criminal. Or vote third party.”

Thanks, Artie.

Still… not entirely wrong. I bite my lip.

“Agreed,” I pipe in. “It’s voter fraud. It was nice meeting you, Governor. I should head out now.”

That exit speech would have been far more effective if I hadn’t switched to a weird British accent when I got to the word ‘Governor,’ as if I’m an orphan in a Dickens novel. Guv’nor. Guv’nor. Guv’nor. I’m gonna orphan myself straight to another continent as soon as I get out of this office. Then I’m going to change my name and burn my passport.

Warren does that thing with his two fingers when he wants to interrupt. “How is this voter fraud, exactly?” he asks, his expression leaning towards incredulous. It’s hard to tell because he does the guarded aloof thing so well.

“Um, like a lie?” I offer. For crying out loud, it’s not like I have any idea what I’m talking about. If I’d known my day was going to include a pop quiz on government regulations I’d have studied beforehand.

“No, no,” Mrs Bianchi is quick to interject. “It’s just a setup! I can’t create a dating profile for him online. We all agreed that was a bad idea. Besides, I have one of my Very Good Feelings about Audrey.”

Warren slides a glance in her direction, and I’m no psychic but I think she’s getting a very ugly sweater for Christmas this year.

“Enough. Everyone out,” he finally snaps, ending this charade.

Thank God. I’m sure I visibly sigh in relief as I turn for the doorway.

“Not you”—Warren pauses a fraction of a second, as if searching his memory like a card catalog—“Audrey.”

I freeze. Oh. He means for everyone to get out except me.

“We have to leave in five,” Artie comments on his way out the door behind Mrs Bianchi. Even Duke trots out. That kind of obedience is impressive, actually. I wouldn’t be in this mess if Gary had an ounce of respect for my workplace, or mice.

Warren rises from the desk he’s been half sitting on, not stopping until he’s two feet in front of me. Maybe eighteen inches. He studies me for a long moment with a calculating gaze that makes me assume he’s three steps ahead of me on something.

Like having me arrested for trespassing.

I study the cut of his suit and remind myself that I did not create this situation and am not at fault here. Then I calculate the odds that he’d be interested in making out before he kicks me out.

They’re low. Still. We’ve got at least three minutes left.

“Where did my mother find you?”

“Across the street.” I tilt my head a bit to the side in what I think is the direction of my house. “I own a dress shop. She was shopping.”

He exhales. It’s the tiniest, nearly inaudible sigh. Like he’s practiced keeping them to himself for a decade or two. “What’s in this for you?”

I blink, focus. He’s too good a politician not to realize a deal was made. He’s asking what his mother offered in order to sell me on this scheme. “She offered to wear one of my dresses to a charity event.”

He nods,